Little things

Tuesday night, a perfectly typical evening in our house. Vincenzo, age 5-1/2; Rocco age 1-1/2.

Kevin comes home from work and engages in an epic battle with Vincenzo, Fantasia style. He starts up a chainsaw and is about to virtually saw off his oldest son’s limbs with a BBBBBRRRRRRMMMMM when Rocco climbs onto his lap, observes the situation, and starts in with a teeny-tiny BBBBBRRRRRRRMMMMM of his own. We can’t stop laughing.

At dinner, Rocco wraps himself in the curtains and walks around, lost in the labyrinth of fabric. We can see the outline of his nose and mouth through the material and his baby feet sticking out of the bottom of the curtains. We ask, “Where’s Rocco?” and the curtain burrito starts giggling and squealing, so pleased it is at its own joke.

Later I’m doing dishes, Kevin is on computer, V is pantlessly reading a book on the couch, and Rocco is stumble-running around in a sweater and naked legs, his bare-feet-and-diaper combo going pat-pat-swish-swish-pat-pat-swish-swish. He’s making laps through the kitchen, saying, “BRRRM! BRRRM! BRRRM!” I watch him disappear down the hall and into his bedroom, pat-pat-swish-swish-brrrm-brrrrming.

“It’s a good life” is the understatement of the century.